Times Like These
by BevScully
Summary: Scully looks at her place with Mulder while on a late night drive.


Times Like These Author: E. Elizabeth Lewallen (bevscully@animalhouse.com) 

We've been on the road for half the night. I'm pretty sure you're on your third cup of coffee, and almost positive that I just finished my fourth. I don't know how they expect those little foam vending machine cups to hold enough coffee to keep anyone awake on the road. Lucky for me, you're the one driving, though I find the thought of you needing coffee is a bit unsettling. I'm half asleep unless my blood is nearly pure caffeine while you're usually wide awake without any at all. Maybe that's why you always drive. I still don't know exactly why we're on the road this time. I know that we're somewhere in West Virginia now and that we're heading west. You mentioned something about Tennessee, about a string of disappearances in some small town near the mountains, but that isn't the whole story. The file is somewhere on the back seat, but I've been too tired to read it yet. I'm trusting you on this, as I have countless times before. You're looking at the map again, biting your sunflower seeds with a deliberate concentration that fascinates me. I wish you would let me handle the map. You've never been good with maps, and it might do something to alleviate this restless, useless feeling deep inside of me. It's times like these that you frustrate the hell out of me. I'm glad that it's well after 3am now, the only traffic being an occasional semi. Somehow, I'm not convinced that your tired mind can monitor both the opposing vehicles and the atlas at one time. I know you're tired; it's in your eyes, the way you keep tapping the wheel with one hand and rolling your neck. I've seen it before. I'll probably ask why exactly it was so imperative that we leave for Tennessee *tonight* in an hour or so. I think I'll also ask why we're not flying this time. We almost always fly if the drive will be over four or five hours. We're up to about eight, maybe nine now. I'm ready for a hot shower and a real bed, motel or otherwise. Maybe even a burger or something, even if it is nearing 4am. Someplace is bound to be open; I think that Taco Bell is open until four these days. That's assuming we'll be going through a town of any size within the next half hour. Something tells me I'll have to settle for another instant coffee, just enough to last me to wherever it is we're staying. There, I can get a least few hours sleep, while you won't get any. It's times like these that make me wonder why I'm still here. The entire car reeks of instant coffee now. Foam cups litter the floorboard on my side, though a good number of them belong to you. Their exposure to the heat blowing softly out of the floor vents intensifies the odor, filling the entire car. That, mixed with the familiar 'new car' smell of a rental vehicle and your subtle cologne, would normally be enough to make someone ill. To me, it is familiar, maybe even somewhat comforting. I lean back in the seat and close my eyes, trying to imagine a time when traveling meant going to visit grandparents or family friends- oceans, roller coasters, camping, and National parks, not cheap hotels and chasing trails left by sketchy leads. We gave up on small talk after the last rest area, resorting to the radio's soft drone mixed with the hum of the highway under the tires. Musak for my life. We had been discussing my family, of all things. After I mentioned my nieces and nephew, the topic turned to the children who have drifted in and out of our lives in the past six years. We skillfully avoided any mention of Gibson or Emily. Funny how things like that always manage to stay tucked neatly away until something hits the fan. It's a fragile, complex dance, and we've perfected it. From then on, talk became more and more trivial. You were saying something about a book you finished last week as we pulled into the last stop. As we pulled out, you asked me if I minded rock. I said no, and that was the last either of us spoke. You look so thoughtful right now. I wonder, as I have countless times since I met you, what's going on in that brilliant mind of yours. Your eyes are fixed on some point out in front of the car and you seem lost in a place that is far beyond my reach. You're still munching your seeds, which I'm beginning to think has turned from simple habit to necessity, to keep you awake. Talking may help. Is this case serious? When are we stopping for the night? Who tipped you on this one, assuming that you *are* behind Kersh's back again? Skinner? Jesus, why am I following you blindly again? How much further, Mulder? How much longer until this is over? So many questions, none appropriate right now, judging by the expression on your face. Another dance we're perfected, only this one silent. My thoughts drift back to our earlier conversation. The mention of children had turned my thoughts back to the possibility of a 'normal' life. You claimed that you couldn't consider giving up this life for a family, and you wouldn't dare bring a family into it, at least not yet. The admission startled me, though I should have expected it. You never mention having children, really. Still . . . "Haven't you ever just wondered, Mulder?" Even after the long silence, my sudden question doesn't startle you. I don't need to explain what I mean, you just know. I can see in your eyes that you do, and I'm fascinated by the subtle changes in your expression. Your features relax, your mouth forms the faintest of smiles, wistful and dream-like. The longing in your eyes, one of those subtle looks usually meant only for me to notice, gives your answer before you even speak. "Yeah," you turn to look at me for a moment and repeat, "Yeah, I have." I have to look away. You've shown me something that you guard carefully, and now I must also tuck it safely away. I don't press you further, I know how this works. I long to know what you dream on those rare nights when your demons allow it, but you're not ready to show me. I respect that. I know you'll show me in time. It's times like these that make me love you. The headlights glint off a sign up ahead. -Rest Area: 30 miles- You turn to me again, flashing what I've dubbed your "smart-ass" grin. This is the smile that warns me that you're about to make a comment that will more than likely bring an eye roll out of me. An eye roll, and a smile. "Hey, Scully? Ready for a refill?" he presents his empty cup, "We've got another hour, hour and a half to go." I can't help but smile. So, I know at least we're stopping tonight, huh Mulder? And it's not far. Somehow, I knew it wouldn't be much farther. Sighing, I lean against the window and close my eyes, the glass cold on my cheek. This small revelation breathes life into my soul, touching the part of me that only Mulder can stir. I open my eyes again, unbuckle my seatbelt, and begin groping around on the back seat for the nearly forgotten file. I can feel Mulder watching me and I can clearly picture the smug grin on his face. It's times like these that I know I can't leave. 


End file.
